


Desperate Times

by meaninglessblah



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Investigations, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22505509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Tim's accounts are frozen pending an FBI Investigation into Wayne Enterprises, rendering him temporarily penniless. Jason kindly lends him a place to stay, out of the goodness of his heart.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 40
Kudos: 245





	Desperate Times

The claim is false, and slanderous, and has absolutely no basis in fact or goodwill. Tim could have that statement tattooed on his arm with how often he’s had to say it down the lens of a camera in the last four hours. Right beneath ‘Wayne Enterprises will do everything in its power to aid officials in their federal investigation’. 

Innocence used to have a meaning around here. Tim used to sleep - well, not easy, never easy - with the confidence that Wayne Enterprises was doing good in the world, that progress was happening in the hours between when he came off patrol and started his morning meeting. That the systematic clock was ticking down. That philanthropy wasn’t being squandered. 

And now there are exactly thirty-seven federal agents in his office, pulling open archive boxes and strewing their contents over his newly installed carpet. Tim sits back in his armchair in the corner and fiddles with the clasp of his Patek Philippe while he watches the methodical chaos. He’d been desposed from his desk chair when the first pair had strolled in and slapped down their warrant. Then he’d had the pleasure of watching their team strut down the corridor and turn his office inside out. 

They’re not going to find anything. Most of WE’s archiving power resides in the seventy-six databanks in its reinforced basement, which they _also_ had a warrant for, and precisely two minutes and thirty-eight seconds after being marshalled into his armchair, Tim had had the pleasure of fielding a very panicked call from his head of telecommunications about ‘men in suits’ and ‘a very legit-looking warrant’. 

Again, they’re not going to find anything. Even if they comb through every file - physical and digitalised - WE has the benefit of an all-seeing guardian angel who can encrypt a malicious supercomputer from three thousand miles away. Tim has absolute confidence that whatever R&D proposal Bruce’s early designs had been pigeoned away in has been wiped entirely from their servers. All that’s left is for Tim to doctor the books; if Lucius hasn’t done that already. 

He’s also one hundred percent, unwaveringly _certain_ that they’re not going to find anything because Wayne Enterprises hasn’t _done_ anything. But Tim understands how warm and fuzzy the bureaucracy of the justice department makes the FBI, so he’s willing to play along with this charade until he discerns exactly which one of their competitors had the gall to launch an anonymous fraudulence claim against them. 

Bruce might not view WE as an actual company with actual shareholders and actual corporate regulations, but Tim’s been running this business day and night for three years (officially), so he’s not about to roll over and play dead for some facetious adversary with a grudge against WE’s latest charitable program. 

He knows the gist of the accusation from the warrant, which he’s read through thrice and would have been able to commit verbatim to memory if he had actually managed to get his three o’clock caffeine booster as per schedule. It’s baseless, and crude, and quiet frankly, Tim doesn’t have the patience to deal with unnecessary process like this at the best of times, let alone when he’s nursing a migraine and watching a gloved agent rifle through his closeted Tom Ford three-piece. 

He lifts a hand in dismay. “That’s a six thous- What are you looking for? Seriously? Am I going to be keeping ‘I stole WE funds’ cue cards in my pockets? What are you actually searching for?” 

The agent shoots him a dirty look, but moves onto his neatly curated bookshelf while Tim buries a sigh deep, deep down in his chest. He’s not normally this irritable, but the withdrawals aren’t helping. 

He wishes he could use his phone, but they’d confiscated that, along with his laptop, when they’d begun their search. So all he’s got to keep his hivemind busy is a repetitive water fountain piece his secretary had bought him for his birthday, and the stopwatch function on his wrist piece. 

By the time the lead agent makes his way over to Tim’s secluded little corner, he’s running an impromptu race between agents five and seventeen for who can empty an archive box in its entirety fastest. He blocks Tim’s view of the proceedings, his hands dipped in the pockets of his standard issue windbreaker as he stares down at him. 

“Mister Drake,” he says, and Tim pushes to his feet, absently rebuttoning his suit jacket as he rises. 

“You don’t look done,” Tim comments. 

The agent doesn’t flinch. “We’ll be a few hours yet. And the investigation will probably spill into a few weeks.” 

Tim runs his tongue over his gums while he tries to think up polite, HR-approved phrasing for ‘what the everloving fuck’, and settles for, “Sounds splendid.” 

"Our apologies for the disruption to your day," the agent says without a single ounce of sincerity. 

Tim gives him a thin smile. "Not at all. However we're able to assist with your investigation, please don't hesitate to ask. Our resources are at your disposal." 

"We'll keep that in mind." 

"See that you do." 

They’re interrupted by a red-faced young delivery boy who’s probably older than Tim materialising in the doorway. Tim’s face must light up at the sight, because he beelines for him, paper cup extended. The federal agent looks displeased with this development. 

“You ordered a coffee?” 

“You’ve kept me in my office for two hours,” Tim returns calmly, and steps past him to receive his order. 

“Very sorry, sir,” he opens with, and presses the triple espresso into Tim’s greedy palms. He cracks the lid to inhale the steam with a sigh of relief while the teen fumbles in his satchel. “There were men in the lobby, wouldn’t let me through without a patdown. Sorry, sir.” 

Tim waves the apology off setting the coffee on the end table with one hand while he fishes his slim designer wallet out of his trousers. “That’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he placates, and slides out his credit card. “How much do I owe you?” 

“Your total is seven dollars eighty, sir,” the delivery boy says, and presents his phone for Tim to tap. The screen is open to a payment app, listing Tim’s order, and he touches his card before returning it to his wallet. The phone makes a dissatisfied bleat, and the teen turns it around to read the prompt. “Your card declined.” 

Tim frowns, and produces the card again, to the same result. “That’s not right.” 

The delivery boy looks uncomfortable. “Might be a bank error. Do you have another card, sir?” 

He does. He cycles through three more cards - all of which return the same decline error - before he works out why. Then he spins on the agent, who’s watching him burn through cards with bald intrigue. “You _froze_ my _accounts?_ ” 

The agent gives a placid shrug. “You’re being investigated for embezzling funds, Mister Drake. If you read the warrant you were provided with-” 

“Yes, I read it,” Tim snaps. He should have drunk the coffee first. “It says all _Wayne Enterprises_ trusts and accounts are suspended. Why are _my personal accounts_ frozen?” 

“The Bureau has the authority to seize any assets it considers relevant to its investigation-” 

“Have you got a warrant for that?” Tim needles. His skin itches, and his espresso is growing cold every second he wastes arguing with these men. 

“Sir,” the delivery boy tries to interject. 

“We have legislative jurisdiction,” the agent replies, and delves into his back pocket. “No warrant required. I can point you in the direction of the section if you want to research it yourself. You’ll be issued with a seizure notice for your personal accounts, your vehicles, your property-” 

“You’re taking my apartment?” Tim snaps, ire flaring dangerously. 

“Sir, I really need payment-” 

The agent hands over a ten which the teen looks more than grateful to receive. “Keep the change,” the man instructs, and Tim watches the delivery boy flee with a twinge of envy. Then the agent turns back to meet Tim’s gaze. “Your assets are seized until further notice is provided. I’d encourage you to seek alternate accommodation for the immediate future until this matter is resolved.” 

HR be damned, Tim’s got several fun suggestions for where this agent can insert some very fun items. The agent smirks at him like he knows exactly how much Tim wants to protest, leans over to snag his espresso, and presses the still-warm paper cup into his palms. 

“Have a lovely evening, Mister Drake. Your presence won’t be required for a few days. Feel free to take the time off.” 

The coffee definitely helps, Tim discovers when he exits the WE lobby into the dusk light. He’s swilling the last of it around the cup and wondering just how he managed to piss off the FBI so thoroughly, when the realisation that WE's monthly pay cycle ran three days ago strikes him. 

Which means that he’s not going to have any money to his name for another twenty-eight days. 

The paper cup crumples in his stunned palm as he stands on the pavement and stares at his very expensive and not-at-all resell-able oxfords. At his expensive suit and excessively luxurious watch that not a single pawn shop in Gotham is going to have the liquid cash to reimburse at closing hour. 

He steeples his hands in front of his nose and takes a long, deep breath. 

He’s Timothy Drake, he has options. Less options if he doesn’t plan on crawling back to Wayne Manor, where a certain demon brat is likely going to make him his personal slave for pocket change for the foreseeable future. And like hell Tim’s going back to Bruce after that stunt he pulled four months back; Tim’s jaw and dignity are worth more than quick forgiveness. 

He could probably go to any one of his safehouses littered around the city, but Tim has it on good authority that the FBI is one allegation away from crawling down his throat to investigate what he ate for breakfast, so Tim figures occupying an apartment attributed to a hollow corporation probably isn’t his smartest move. Which rules out relying solely on his own resources for a place to sleep for the next month. 

Dick’s in Bludhaven, and whilst he’s not the tidiest roommate, he always has time for Tim. He could probably stand to bunk with him for a month, except for two small complications; firstly, that Tim can’t even afford a bus to get to the end of the block, let alone the next town over, and secondly, he’s fairly certain Dick isn’t even planetside right now. So that rules his help out. 

He immediately decides against rooming with Steph. He loves her, perhaps a little too dearly, but she doesn’t need or deserve the kind of attention the newly accused Wayne Enterprises’ bachelor will bring with him. The last time he’d been seen in public with her, Steph had punched a paparazzi in the throat when they’d tried to antagonize her into revealing if they were dating. He owes Steph his life, and that means keeping Timothy Drake’s very public life well out of her zone. 

Which leaves him with startlingly few options. Titans Tower is a flight away, and Metropolis isn’t viable on such short notice. Besides, Tim doesn’t want to bring this trouble to their doorsteps. He’d much rather just hunker down for a month until this investigation blows over, and go back to business as usual. He’s Forbes’ most prolific upcoming entrepreneur for Fall 2018; he can handle a few weeks without his platinum AmEx all on his own. 

But more to the point, Tim needs a place to stay. At least until he can sort out some more suitable accommodation. He should probably eat something too. He’d skipped lunch to attend a meeting on the assumption that he wouldn’t be subjected to a rigorous FBI investigation, so he’s running on fumes and caffeine. Which he can do for another forty hours if needed, but he’s been told that’s not sensible more times than he can count. 

He frets on the pavement for another fifteen minutes until he finally admits to himself that he’s stalling. Then he drags a hand down his face, swipes his fringe out of his eyes, and flags down a taxi to take him downtown. 

The cab drops him at the curb on the most rundown street in Crime Alley when Tim instructs him to idle. Tim swallows at the interested glances, unbuttoning his sleeve cuffs and jogging up the short steps to the apartment building. The elevator looks severely disused, so Tim takes the stairs to the second floor, praying that his potential saviour hasn’t shucked this safehouse like his string of others, and knocks on the door to 2B. 

He has to knock thrice more with increasing volume before its bleary-eyed resident materialises behind a security chain, and Tim reflexively checks his watch. It’s a little early for Bats and Birds to be awake. That’s probably on Tim. 

Jason sweeps him with a severely unimpressed gaze, drinking down his pristine waistcoat and barely crumpled trousers before returning to his flushed face. “I’m not buying whatever you’re selling.” 

Tim scowls impatiently and shuffles his weight. “Can I come in?” 

“No,” Jason answers, and looks him up and down again. “What the hell are you doing in this neighbourhood, Drake?” 

Swallowing feels like he’s trying to digest a bowling ball, for how tight his throat feels. “I need, um, I need _aplacetostay_.” 

Jason blinks, and shakes his head slightly. “Come again? Didn’t catch that.” 

“I _need,_ ” Tim repeats with growing discomfort, “a place to stay.” 

Jason curls a hand around his ear, and Tim hates him. “Once more?” 

“I need a place-” 

“Oh no,” Jason interrupts, and the words die in Tim’s throat, “I heard you the first time. I’m just waiting for you to use your manners.” 

Maybe that sticky thing in his throat is his pride. Tim tries to swallow it down again and takes a deep breath. “Can I _please_ stay with you? I need a place to stay, _please._ ” 

“Can I get a pretty please?” 

“ _Jason-_ ” 

“What’s wrong with your East Side apartment, trust fund baby? You renovating or something?” 

Tim flushes, and resists the urge to stub the toe of his oxfords into the floorboards; he might have to sell these for quick cash, so the better condition they’re in, the better off he’ll be. “I’m being investigated by the FBI. They froze my accounts.” 

Jason blinks at him once more, and then says, “Hold, please,” and shuts the door in his face. 

Tim’s shocked for all of a minute, before an uproar of laughter filters through the wood, and he seriously considers whether crawling back to Bruce with open arms is so bad an option. It continues for a good minute, great guffaws of mirth, while Tim consults his watch and mentally calculates how much longer he can wait. 

Then the door opens, and Jason re-emerges, this time without the chain. His eyelashes are wet, and his brows are nearly touching his hairline, and Tim _hates_ him. “You got mugged, replacement.” 

“The FBI robbed me,” Tim agrees in an impatient, deadpan tone. “Now can I _please_ come in before someone kills me for my piece of shit AmEx?” 

Jason shoulders past the door and crosses his arms, leaning up on the doorframe. Tim feels like he could scream with how the man is drawing his torment out. “So let me get this straight: you want me to lend you my place to crash because you’re being investigated for…?” 

“Embezzlement,” Tim supplies. “And fraud.” 

Jason whistles, low and amused. “And Daddy Wayne couldn’t take you because?” 

Tim shuffles uncomfortably and glances down. “I didn’t want to ask him. We haven’t been on speaking terms since he- Well, we don’t talk anymore. Didn’t want to impose.” 

Jason’s lips twist in displeasure, but he just hums a heavy note. “And Dickie?” 

Tim rolls his eyes, because he’s already thought this through, and Jason’s wasting his time. “Not local right now. Are you going to let me in or not? Because if you’re not, then I need to find a payphone and some change-” 

Jason snorts. “They yanked your tech too? Poor Timmy Drake, they really did you dirty, huh? Alright, I’ll put you up for the night. But only because you look so damn pathetic standing in my hallway. Seriously, you look like a kicked puppy.” 

Tim feels relief and gratitude wash through him like a flood, shoulders sagging out of their tense rise. He’s halfway to a gracious thank you when Jason grins and adds, “This is going to be hilarious.” 

He scowls, bites down on his tongue to stifle the retort that wants to burst through his lips, and mentally pencils in a spa day for once this all blows over. Then he remembers, and winces. “Um. Can I borrow a hundred? I took a cab here and I’m not liquid right now.” 

Jason draws in a long, steady breath, and chews at the inside of his cheek in what Tim suspects is an effort not to smile. “Sure.” 

Then he digs into his pocket and holds up his cell. Camera facing him. Tim’s smile slides off his face. 

“Say that for me, one more time, with feeling. And I’ll give you your hundred.” 

Yeah, Tim really hates him. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you read the tags, you'll know where this is headed.
> 
> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
